Its favorite complaint
is not valid,
to imagine one’s pain,
is beyond another’s reach.
We are often more together
than what visibly
might be imagined,
while the construct of love remains.
To imagine solace
rather than feel it is easily
than finding the truth.
Oh to be your guide,
to let your body fall in grace,
into my own,
so the comfort of love remain.
Oh to know a solution,
to understand a helpless nature,
in the human condition,
to show delight in love.
A simple remedy is plausible
only to the sightseer
who has not trekked the craggy
landscape of a chronic sojourn.
We seek peace in the shelter of our lives,
far beyond the tantalizing nature of pain.
Have we been replaced?
the crumpled being in the corner mumbled,
to a jury of peers
who in quiet realize,
believe they will never allow themselves …
Yet his clothes are shabby,
the same pinstripe with a Jerry Garcia tie
pink button down oxford, and well-shined shoes,
he possessed years earlier,
during that last summit,
the day he resigned from today’s society.
Still, no one wonders where he is,
why he became,
how a life can turn beyond,
the normalcy of the human condition.
The new normal some might argue,
he might argue,
she might not care anymore,
given all the energy she spent defending
a frame of mind,
he no longer understood, or chose to wonder …
The idealism in surprise,
the beauty of spontaneity,
the sacrifice of one’s own belief system,
in order to complement
We are all too easily duped
by pretty sights,
and warm surroundings,
to such a degree of departure,
we sometimes do forget …
the crumpled man in soft murmurs.
The speaker addressed the room,
eyes upon them, many thoughtful worries,
all seeking the same outcome,
They traveled for miles,
alone in their own personal struggles,
each one living a quiet curiosity,
all of them believing in a certain goodness.
Life is fallible,
now asked to believe,
we are all part of this machine.
The speaker noticed one
tucked away with purpose
in the far back row,
from a distant he could see their eyes.
Even when we try to hide in a crowd,
the red circles around our lives,
do tell a story,
one for which we might be proud.
The speaker then asked everyone in the room,
if you could share one thing what would it be,
and then he directed the people
to look one another in the eye, for a time …
To have that moment,
when a chill that passed nearby,
suddenly does become the fire we live by.
Oh to know the sacred delight of happiness,
might be the shadowed glance in her eyes.
O to believe in the beauty of a moment.
To recognize how very simply our lives can twist,
turn, negotiate a new horizon,
the one that will quickly put the sadness aside.
Oh to know the key,
to that tease,
to the humanity, that resides in our mind,
when all we want to do is let our lives slide,
slow, peaceful, strides toward some ambience,
a special flower,
perhaps it is certainly that essence
of our reality.
Oh to know when the time is right.
We tore each other’s clothe’s off,
or was it the drinking, somehow, they seemed to blend
we were anxious to start fucking, yet, the bourbon,
an unsealed bottle of Grand Marnier
I was saving to sip upon all winter.
I’d ripped it off of course – couldn’t afford that shit.
But tonight, it impressed you enough to start …
giving me a hand job while I unsealed the cork,
so drunk I spilled it all over you, just a few splashes,
not the sort of attractive oops, more disgusting,
but you were still making me hard, so I reached over,
and licked it off of your naked tits, almost falling over on top of you.
Had you not had a grip on me, I would have collapsed,
you sort of pulled me back, like bringing the boat in off the dock –
‘don’t let go of that fucking rope son’ I used to hear my dad call.
Oh, the bourbon you were drinking had such an effect on your eyes,
glazed and fuckable … I don’t remember finishing the bottle.
In the morning, they both laid dry on their sides,
a couple of empty liquor bottles were nearby …
I really don’t remember fucking you that night,
just recall a vague reality … the drinking.
a silence speaks while
we treasure our confidence.
I remember traveling pavement,
when imagining those around,
hadn’t a clue my state of mind,
I was hidden from their voice,
inside my own quiet hell.
The silence is that vacancy of my mind,
that piece I cannot fathom,
the look, the glance, the shoulder turn,
the indicators all suggest,
I am that person I cannot stand to be.
Yet, while in the truth of our own reality,
so often I will recoil,
stretch the truth to get by,
realize my desire my demon.
a word defined by stature,
status, state of mind, stoic truth
though a part of the broader picture,
often takes hiatus when reality,
that part of our lives we wish others to see,
escapes our own thoughtful
Everyday I look at trees,
at wind, at leaves, at nature’s dream.
Every night when I exhaust,
I will forget the simple beauty of
what is real in my, our, their,
in this simple silent world.
Without words, I might recognize
that symbolic gesture, less game,
This is a difficult post. I have some friends here, that when you read this, I don’t want you to be concerned, just know this is the aftermath of my thinking.
I am tired, it has been a long year. I’ve struggled with depression in mounting furies throughout the last few years. When Robin Williams took his own life, I began to wonder about how long he coped with his own affliction. However, clearly the difference between that gentleman and me is vast – he is an entertainer, one that touches the lives of many. I touch the lives of a few, a large enough few that my actions are important to all of them. I guess the Robin Williams analogy only speaks to how a person in a vulnerable state of mind would make choices based upon another’s actions – however distant or close they are to that individual. It is the inspiration that can be tiresome.
Today, this day, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. I actually formulated a plan in my head. One that I will no longer carry out, but the fantasy of it, was rather horrific. I’ve tried to determine the onset – I believe it is mostly situational, but there certainly is the chronic side of things, that piece that never really departs, just perhaps goes on hiatus some days more than others. Today was a day, when the visit was rather wrenching. I imagined the quickness and that scared me a lot I suppose. I’m writing this here, because no one beyond a couple of my bloggers knows me in the actual capacity I lead in my normal life. Most of you know me as a struggling writer trying to find an avenue, a niche, a purpose to tossing these words around.
I am compelled to write about this here, because you are a safe audience, and I am noting that many of you struggle with the same illness, persona, state of mind, and for that and your words I am grateful. I spend most of my days influencing people younger than me about the importance of staying alive, living through our struggles, but I seldom explain or reveal to them how tired I am when I go home, and how much I would rather sleep my weekends away.
Today, I want to thank a couple of bloggers. They will go unnamed for their own anonymity, but to suggest my life is so miserable to want to put an end to things, is a bit selfish – a reality I have always espoused around tragedies that I have had to attend under similar circumstances. Those stories are the words that caused me to reflect upon my own worries, and realize there are far greater torments all around us all the time.
I appreciate people sharing their lives here – their real lives are far more important than the daily read of which, we sometimes have to reconsider the value. The real words, those that reveal our innermost fears and wants and hopes, those are the ones that allow me to sit back and say, yes, I will go forward, because that is my responsibility. I will allow my demons to come along for the ride, yet always be conscious of their own fallibility in their efforts to bring me down.
I appreciate your listening audience, and wish you all a bounty of … words.